Lifeline
by Brookebynature
Summary: She tries to ignore it at first. Chalks it down to a stomach bug and being tired (the job is more than demanding, after all). But it gets harder - to ignore it that is. Especially when her boobs are this sore and the smell of coffee makes her want to vomit and everything Jay says or does unintentionally makes her want to cry. Erin and Jay's recovery in nine months. Linstead oneshot


**A/N - This popped into my head yesterday at the gym and I've spent the past day and a half writing everything that came out. I guess you could say it's one part inspiration, one part desperation, and twenty parts mending my poor little Linstead heart after watching that deleted 4X18 scene. It's also kind of long, and I was going to split it up but I decided you guys deserve it all at once.**

 **Show your love with a review? Thanks ;) xxx**

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Lifeline

She tries to ignore it at first. Chalks it down to a stomach bug and being tired (the job is more than demanding, after all). But it gets harder - to ignore it that is. Especially when her boobs are this sore and the smell of coffee makes her want to vomit and every fucking thing Jay says or does makes her want to cry.

And so, on a Saturday morning when she doesn't wake to Jay's kisses or the sound of him clattering in the kitchen because he's no longer there in a morning, no longer a constant presence in her life like he has been and still should be, Erin makes the trip to the drug store like a shamed teenager, grabbing the one test at first, then thinking better of it and adding a couple more to her basket. She makes sure she has different brands (covering all bases in a bid to be thorough in this upcoming conclusion) and then has the good sense to add a few candy bars and a bottle of water to her purchase - if only to make herself feel better about the fact she's possibly (ok, _probably_ ) pregnant.

The cashier rings up the tests and candy and water and throughout the whole thing, Erin casts her eyes downward, feels her skin flame and prick with tiny beads of sweat even though she's always been the one who doesn't give a shit about what people think.

Funny (or not, really) that she's developed this worry now.

The cashier doesn't seem bothered though, just shoves each item into a bag idly, like she doesn't even recognise the significance of this moment, of someone on the verge of discovering whether or not their life is about to change. Her fingers jab at the cash register until the sum total of $37.96 is displayed on the screen in red numbers so bright that nobody could miss them.

Expensive really, to determine whether or not you've accidentally gotten knocked up at the worst possible time.

Still, Erin quickly hands over the two twenty dollar bills, takes the change without really looking up and gabbles a quick "thanks," before making her exit. The bag seems to burn her hands on the walk back to her apartment and yet, when she reaches her front door, unlocks it and slips inside, she drops it onto the counter and turns away without a second glance.

Finally buying the tests is one thing. Taking them, it seems, is something else.

X

She avoids the bag all day. Tiptoes around it like if she's too loud, it'll turn into some sort of roaring monster and wake the neighbours - not that they'd be asleep at this time anyway. She makes her meals: a bagel with pastrami and arugula she doesn't eat for lunch; cannelloni from the freezer that tastes wrong for dinner, all of the time avoiding eye contact with the bag until finally, around eight in the evening, her legs take her to it of their own accord and she's staring down the boxes: one pink, one blue, one lilac, like a little pastel palette of truth waiting to be revealed.

All three boxes go with her to the bathroom and she opens the pink one first - no real reason other than it's the one on top. Foregoing the instructions (it's pretty obvious right? Pee, then wait) she rips open the packaging and huffs as she pulls down her jeans and panties, landing on the toilet with a soft thud.

It takes a good few seconds - peeing for a purpose is tougher than it seems - but Erin knows the stick will give her answer after the designated two minutes is up. She flushes the chain and sets the stick on the counter while washing her hands. There's no point in setting the timer - she'll get her result when she gets it: simple as that.

She can't honestly say she's surprised when there are two clear lines showing.

Still, she opens the blue box next and repeats her actions. This time, it's a plus sign.

She already knows what the next one is going to say - in truth, she'd known before it was confirmed by the previous two tests - but she opens the box anyway, peeing and washing and waiting until there's another plus to match the previous one, and then all the bile rises in her throat at once. It's lucky she's so close to the toilet already. Any further away and she'd be cleaning the floor.

Once her heaves have subsided and she's feeling a little woozy, Erin rises to a stand slowly - careful not to jolt her stomach which, now that three little plastic sticks have confirmed it, seems set on shouting out the fact that she's pregnant. Said sticks go in the bin: she's not sentimental and it seems kind of gross that she'd keep them as proof that there's a child growing inside of her. It's going to be pretty obvious in a few months anyway.

She pauses for a moment on her way out of the bathroom, trying to determine exactly how she feels about it - about being pregnant. She's pretty sure there should be an overriding emotion one way or the other but there isn't. It just...is. She's pregnant and it's a fact. Not an emotion. Not good, not bad.

There would be an emotion if Jay were here, she thinks suddenly, abruptly, the thought catching her off guard. If he were here and they were them (without the marriage to someone else and the leaving; the space - so much fucking space that she aches sometimes) she'd be scared and he'd be so overwhelmingly happy that she'd be happy too. Really happy. The kind of happy that makes you smile for no reason.

But Jay's not here. He's not here, sharing this experience with her and maybe she should have called him, but Erin knows she's not going to be that girl who makes the father of her child come home because he has some responsibility to her. He doesn't.

He has a responsibility to the child that's growing inside of her, yes, a child who's just starting its life in a world without images, and she knows he'll be there if it comes to it. If whatever higher power there is decides not to take it from her before it arrives in the world - because Erin knows that's a possibility too.

And at that, she makes her way to the living room, turning off the lights in succession because tiredness has suddenly hit her like a freight train and all she wants to do is crawl under the covers and sleep. Well, that's a black and white version of what she wants to do. The technicolor version - the one in high definition - wants Jay's arms and Jay's smell and Jay's lips against her temple.

Her set's only playing black and white tonight though, and Erin makes her peace with that, undressing quickly before pulling on one of his old t-shirts with a pair of lace panties - not because it was _his_ favourite thing for her to sleep in (she's not a masochist) - but because the feel of the cotton against her breasts is more comfortable than anything else.

Once she's settled under the covers, she reaches for her phone, unlocks the screen and types out seven different messages - none of which she sends him. It isn't fair to do that: to catch him off guard when he's trying to get better; trying to figure things out. No, she decides. She'll tell him when it's right.

X

Not surprisingly, the right time doesn't come.

She thinks it does, almost three weeks later when she's in the break room just kind of standing around because now that coffee makes her want to vomit, there isn't really an excuse for her to be in there. Jay joins her, clutching a box of something somewhat sheepishly with a gruff,

"Hey."

"Hey," she smiles, moving out of the way so he can grab a mug, even though she could've easily passed one to him from where she was standing.

"Thought you might like this." He hands her a box of chamomile tea and she looks up at him, her eyes asking the questions that her lips don't. "You said you're trying not to drink as much coffee," he adds, by way of explanation for the box of Twinings seated in her grasp. "And chamomile helps with the stomach flu."

Ah, the lie she'd told when she'd vomited at a crime scene the previous day.

Everything about him in that moment makes her want to tell him. But then they catch a new lead to investigate, she thinks about how he'd tell Voight because he'd want her on desk duty, and so decides against it.

By the time they get back to the pen at the end of their shift, she's so tired she can barely stand, let alone summon the energy to tell him everything she probably should if they're going to hash all of this out. Instead, he goes to Will's and she goes home to the apartment they shared.

Past tense.

She's too tired even to dwell on that now.

The next day is Friday, and Erin decides the right time almost definitely isn't going to come. All she knows is she doesn't want to tell him in the locker room or the pen or even the GMC, and so she waits until their working day is over, he accepts an invite from Ruzek to go to Molly's, then asks him if he's doing anything tomorrow.

"I don't have any plans," he tells her, collecting her empty mug from her desk so he can wash it before they leave for the weekend. That aspect of their relationship hasn't changed - him tidying around after her - but it might be out of habit more than anything else, she thinks. "Why? You want to do something?"

"We could catch up," she suggests stupidly, like the term is enough to describe what she's going to tell him, as though being pregnant with his child just requires a casual mention - you know, no biggie.

"Catch up," Jay repeats like he's testing out the term. "Okay."

"Do you want to come over? I could cook something."

"Or we could order takeout," he grins knowingly. Except, he doesn't know her. Not properly, not anymore. Doesn't know about this new development that's wreaking havoc with her body at all times of the day.

"I'll cook," Erin reaffirms, like the slight suggestion she's going to fuck up the food is an insult intended to break her. And she knows it isn't but for some stupid reason, it stings. Like, if she can't even get the food right, how can she be someone's mom?

"Sounds great," he replies, reminding her that this is a conversation with that half-grin of his that simultaneously melts and turns her on at the same time.

"Seven?"

"Seven."

Jay goes to Molly's and she makes an excuse about not wanting to ruin her good work on the coffee-front with booze. Nobody suspects anything.

She figures she must be a better liar than she gives herself credit for.

X

His arrival at the apartment (it's too hard to think of it as _hers_ , and it definitely isn't _theirs_ anymore) is signalled by three clear raps at the door and she calls out that it's open because she's got a dish of enchiladas in her hands that she's busy sliding onto the shelf in the oven.

He takes his boots off by the door like he always used to, lines them up and straightens hers while he's at it before removing his jacket to hang on the set of hooks where their coats always lived side-by-side.

"Smells good," he tells her. "Mexican?"

"Enchiladas."

He doesn't reply to that with a word, but makes some sort of appreciative noise as he reaches for one of the tortilla chips in a bowl on the counter - the same counter he'd fucked her senseless on a few nights before he packed his bags and broke her heart without meaning to.

"You'll spoil your dinner," she says with a small semblance of a grin, because that's what he always used to tell her when he was the one in front of the stove living up to his house-husband nickname.

Jay pops a final chip into his mouth, heads for the cupboard with the glasses and brushes past her on his way to the sink. It's all too familiar - him helping himself to the things he needs - that suddenly, Erin has an internal freak-out and has to remind herself to keep calm.

She does, eventually, and Jay doesn't seem to have noticed. He takes the dish out of the oven when the timer sounds because she's busy breathing through a period of nausea in the bathroom and hoping he won't notice that either - not when she's gotten this close to telling him on her own. By the time she returns to the living room, he's dished out two very generous portions and Erin's busy regretting her choice. A rich tomato dish is almost definitely not going to sit well.

They eat - or, more accurately, Jay eats and Erin pushes the food around with her fork until he sets his down, clears his throat and asks her what's wrong with a simple,

"Er?"

That breaks her. That simple use of the first syllable of her name and she thinks that for so long, she hasn't known what to feel that the overwhelming sadness at the fact that none of this is how it should be is simply too much. She cries for the timing of it. She cries for being embarassed to buy the tests - inappropriately embarrassed for creating a life with the man she loves (because the loving part is still present tense, and she can't see a time where it wouldn't be). She cries because he missed that part and they can't get it back, even though she knows that it wouldn't change anything. There are tears too, for the realisation of how badly she wants this baby, even if the timing isn't right.

"Hey," he soothes, running his hand over hers even though he has no clue why she's crying. He probably concludes it's because they're not together, she thinks, and it is, yes, but it's so much more than that and she'll never be able to tell him because it's not fair.

She rights herself quickly, wiping at her tears with her free hand until she tugs the one under his free as well, the skin feeling cold without his palm warming it.

"You okay?" he asks, and they both know he means right now. Is she okay _right now_? because neither of them are okay in the grand scheme of things.

"I'm pregnant," is her answer.

Erin doesn't think she's ever heard a silence so deafening.

X

Predictably, Jay makes her tell Voight because she should be on desk duty, not risking her life to tackle armed criminals and yeah, she knows that really but it doesn't make it any easier when everyone else leaves the pen and she's left with only a phone and the blackboard for company.

There's a slight swell to her stomach now. It's hardly noticeable to the eye, but her jeans are tight and her t-shirts don't tuck in like they used to. Jay's fascinated with it - her changing shape - but he doesn't voice this aloud. She knows though: can tell by the way his eyes linger on her when she's standing and how his gaze fixes on her midsection first when they're in each other's presence.

He hovers. Brings her so many mugs of chamomile tea that Erin spends half her shifts in the bathroom and it would be annoying, she thinks, if it wasn't the only time she really gets to share this with him.

She asks him if he wants to go with her for the first scan. She knows he will and it makes her feel sad that she has actually _asked_ him, because if they weren't _not together_ , she'd just tell him when the appointment was and they'd write it on the calendar and he'd save it in his phone and ask Hank together for the hour or so off work. But she _does_ ask. Tentatively too, like there might even be the smallest chance he'd say he can't or he's busy or he needs to be at work. And of course, there isn't because when she says the words, he looks at her like he's touched. Like he's grateful she's bothered to include him in this - the first sighting of their child.

They sit together in the waiting room at the doctor's office and when they call her name, Jay stands as she does, placing a hand at the base of her spine like he has done before at various points in their relationship, the images flashing before Erin's eyes like a slideshow of everything they've ever experienced. She likes the feel of his hand there: strong and protective, but gentle. Always so gentle when it comes to her.

She winces at the feel of the cold gel on her stomach and she thinks she hears a chuckle escape Jay's lips. It's the first one she's heard in so long and it makes her smile too. The sonographer moves the transducer around a little and that's when they hear it: the rhythmic thudding of their baby's heartbeat. Tears prick in Erin's eyes which she's not ready for: she hadn't expected a simple sound could do that to her. Maybe Jay notices, or maybe her doesn't, but she feels his hand reach for hers, lacing their fingers and smoothing his thumb over her skin in comfort and something else, she thinks. Gratitude, possibly.

"Look, Erin," he urges gently, squeezing her hand so she'll turn her head towards the screen where a grainy black and white picture of their child is displayed. She can't see very well through the tears that are clouding her vision but she can see enough to know it already looks perfect.

They just stare together for however much time passes until the sonographer asks whether they want a print out, a question which Jay answers for them both: of course. They get their photo and book the next scan and she walks out of the room with his hand on the base of her spine again and for a short moment, it all feels devastatingly perfect. And then they head outside to the car and Jay asks whether she's sleeping okay and it all comes crashing down because he shouldn't have to ask that: should already know the answer because they should be sharing a bed; falling asleep together and waking up together when she needs to pee three times a night.

"I'm sleeping fine," she says tightly, and he just looks at her for a moment. He doesn't say anything more and they head back to the district together.

But not _together_.

X

One day, a few weeks later when they're alone in the break room and she's pouring him a mug of coffee because she's the closest one to the machine, Jay asks whether she would come to one of his support group meetings. He follows it up with a quick, "You don't have to if you're busy or tired or...you don't have to," but she touches his arm lightly, gets him to stop talking and look at her because of course she wants to go.

She thinks she's prepared for this meeting.

It turns out, she's anything but.

It's a warm summer evening when they park up the Sierra on some quiet, unassuming street that has trees filtering the sunlight so it's spilling over the asphalt in golden shards. His hand isn't resting on her back this time because he's in front and she's toeing behind him, waiting to see this world of his she hasn't been a part of.

They take seats on hard plastic chairs that are set up in a circle and Erin slides in hers so it's touching his; so there isn't any room between them. She's not sure whose benefit she does it for but it doesn't matter really. Jay rests a hand on her knee, spanning out his fingers so he covers more of the skin beneath her jeans and although she expects him to, he doesn't remove it. Not until it's his turn to talk, at least.

She listens through stories of self-harm and alcohol abuse, of families being torn apart because these selfless people went abroad to fight for justice and freedom, to fix broken countries and yet came broken themselves. When it's Jay's turn to talk, she sucks in a deep breath, waiting to hear along without everyone else, _his_ story.

"I'm Jay," he tells the group in a shaky voice. Tears prick and sting her eyes but she fights them back because it's not fair for her to be the one upset. "This is uh...this is my first time telling this story."

Erin's throat feels like sandpaper and it's near impossible to swallow. His hand leaves her knee to rub harshly at the back of his neck and she can feel the tension radiating off of him. But she waits. Waits to hear what he's going to tell them.

And she isn't ready. Isn't ready to hear how he can't sleep at night; how he holds (then changes to held - past tense. A figurative blow to the stomach) his girlfriend until she'd drift off before moving her gently to the edge of the bed so if he were to have a night tremor, he'd not hurt her accidentally when he'd wake disorientated. Isn't ready to discover how he'd wake before her to reposition her in his arms again, so she'd wake pressed up against his chest with her head tucked under his chin, just like she'd been when she'd drifted off the previous night. She isn't ready to hear about the flashbacks he experiences when he fires a gun - or worse, when he's fired at - so intense and vivid that he feels like he's back amidst the sand and the dust and the baking heat of the Middle East. How he tries not to flinch when he visits the shooting range with his partner and disguises his fear with flirty friendly competitiveness.

And she isn't ready either, for his final confession: that feeling like this has torn him away from the girl he loves, who needs him to be there when he can't be, and he feels so guilty about all of it because he's absolutely petrified he's going to ruin the good things he's got in his life. And he wants to go home, he tells them. Home to the apartment she's at so he can do all the dad-to-be stuff he's supposed to do like buy pickles at 3am and hold her hair back when she's throwing up and argue about baby names. He can't do that until he's better, because he knows he needs to be in it one hundred percent.

Erin doesn't stay for the rest of the meeting.

She makes it out of the doors and onto the sidewalk before she all but collapses against the wall, covering her mouth with her hand in a failed bid to stop the sobs escaping. He's only seconds behind her, wrapping his arms around her body so he can hold her up and she can breathe him in and they can both cry for the way things are.

"I never knew," she chokes out between gasps for air. "You were in all that pain and I never knew."

"'Cause I wouldn't have let you find out," he tells her, smoothing her hair so she's tingling all over and wishing they never had to break apart.

She's not sure how long they stand there like that, but she knows it isn't long enough.

X

Erin feels their child move inside of her one night when she's lying on the couch, a spoon in one hand and a tub of Phish Food in the other. It's barely even a movement - more of a flutter really, like a butterfly's delicate wings brushing against her skin. But she feels it.

She tells Jay and there's a strange lilt in his voice she doesn't want to identify. And instead of him lifting her shirt so he can place a hand on her stomach in the hopes of feeling it too - even though she knows he wouldn't be able to yet - he asks her to describe it for him because he's not there with her. Where he should be. He's on Will's couch in Will's apartment and Erin's just _willing_ _him_ to conquer this so they can be what they were - only better, because they'll _both_ be okay.

"I wi-" she starts, then abruptly stops because yeah, it's okay for her to wish he was there beside her - and they both know that she does - but it's not okay to voice it.

"I know," he hums sadly over the phone, because he knows what she means. Doesn't need for her to finish that sentence. "Me too."

When they hang up, she jams the lid back onto the tub of ice cream, getting her fingers all sticky in the process, and puts it back into the freezer. The spoon goes into the sink and will remain there overnight because she couldn't care less that it's dirty. Jay would though. He'd roll his eyes and smile at her but wash it up anyway, drying it with a towel before popping it back in the cutlery drawer.

She cries at that. At the simplicity of the domestic life they're missing out on.

Then she goes to bed, rests a hand on her ever-expanding stomach and cries some more.

A few days later, Voight puts Jay on forced furlough. He looks absolutely terrible - all bloodshot eyes and grey skin - and Erin can't help but feel guilty about it all, like if she somehow could've kept this baby a secret for longer, he wouldn't feel under pressure to get better. She knows he's not there yet, but he's trying desperately to be, and that's probably holding up his recovery further. Keeping her pregnancy a secret now would be damn near impossible, she thinks, especially with the size of her bump: there's no way her bullet vest would fasten.

And so she watches from the break room as Voight shouts at him to leave and he hangs his head in shame like he's failed them all, and she wants to do nothing more than throw herself at him, wrap him in her arms and promise that it'll all be okay. She thinks (no, she _knows_ ) it will be, eventually.

But eventually seems to be a long time in coming.

X

None of them hear from him for a week or so. Will texts her to let her know Jay's doing a little better, but he wants to be sure there's real, measureable progress before he sees her again. Erin's not sure she cares anymore because somehow, all of this space is suffocating and she just wants Jay to _be_ there, whatever capacity that might be in.

But one day - the day before her next scan, incidentally - he calls her to ask if he can come over. And he does - come over that is - with some food from her favourite restaurant and a serious supply of Swedish Fish because that's been her craving of late and somehow, without even being there, he knows this. She knows she probably shouldn't, but she's kind of done with _shouldn't_ for now, and maybe she can blame it on the hormones (even though really, she knows it has absolutely nothing to do with them) but she flings herself at him. Rocks into him so hard he has to brace himself against both of their weight but he catches her - of course he does - and tucks her head under his chin as she twists slightly so her protruding stomach can be accommodated into the equation. Jay chuckles softly at that, releasing her only so he can place a palm either side of the neat bump sitting atop of her jeans.

"I wish I hadn't missed so much of this," he says softly it's almost a whisper.

Erin only nods. She's not sure she can get any words out.

"Can I?" he asks, in reference to lifting her shirt; to inspecting the results of their handiwork those months ago when she'd thought everything had been fine. The fact he asks though, brings a lump to her throat because he shouldn't have to. He _doesn't_ have to.

"Course," she chokes.

They stand exactly where they are in the hallway and he gently lifts her shirt, folding it neatly so it rests on top of her stomach and he can openly stare at the way her skin has stretched and pulled over the last five months to create their baby's home.

"You look beautiful, you know," Jay tells her. "I've been meaning to tell you that. Should've told you sooner."

It's a little intense, the way he's looking at her. Like he's committing everything to memory, just in case. She just waits, ready to stand there as long as he needs, but after a few minutes he unfolds her shirt, being just as gentle as he'd been initially, and presses a soft kiss against her hair.

He grabs the previously forgotten food from where it's currently residing in a bag on the floor, and takes it to the kitchen counter to dish out onto plates. They eat fettuccine alfredo at the table with the low hum of the television in the background and it all feels so right that Erin thinks this _has_ to be the start of things getting better. Surely nobody would be so cruel as to give them this snapshot and then take it all away.

They move to the couch once they've finished eating and Jay has tidied the plates away, washing and stacking and drying so there's no evidence of their meal left aside from the smell of garlic and the happy fullness of each of their stomachs. He settles down next to her and she shifts so that her weight is leaning on him, so he'll adjust his arm to fit round her shoulders and pull her closer still. He does all of those things and then proceeds to run his fingers through the soft waves of her hair as he flicks through the channels on the tv until they settle on the Yankees game.

Erin can feel every one of his exhaled breaths on her head as the cheers from the fans in the background fade to a simple buzz and her eyes fight to close. She won't let them though; just continues to drag her lids upwards so she won't fall asleep. She's not sure she could bare it if she woke and he was no longer there.

"Stop it," he says gently, laying his lips against the skin of her temple.

"Stop what?"

"Fighting sleep. You're exhausted."

"I'm fine," she mumbles, wriggling impossibly closer so she can burrow into him.

"Go to sleep Erin," he says again, a little more insistent this time. "I'll be here when you wake up."

She just about manages the next word before her eyelids do close. "Promise?"

His hands go to her chin, tilting it towards him and she knows what's coming next: craves it more than oxygen. His lips, gentle and warm and impossibly soft seal over hers so that the quiet sigh she emits tumbles out of her mouth and straight into his.

"Promise."

As promised, Jay _is_ there when she wakes, watching her with that lazy smile she loves so much.

"Hey," she greets, twisting and turning in order to stretch out her limbs and shift her weight so he can free the dead arm she knows he'll have.

"Hey."

"What time is it?"

"A little after ten."

She startles at that, figuring she's been out for at least two hours, during which he could have left. Could have. But didn't.

"I should go," he tells her, bursting the bubble she knows had to break at some point. She just doesn't want that point to be now.

"I don't want you to."

He drops a kiss to her forehead and sighs. "I don't want to either. But the last thing I want to do is take one step forward and two steps back."

It's pretty sound logic, Erin has to admit, but it doesn't mean she likes it.

"I'll pick you up in the morning," he tells her. "The scan's at ten, right?"

He's remembered. Of course he has. "Right."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow.

"Okay." It leaves her lips as something of a grumble, but he smiles and offers his lips against hers one more time so she ends up repeating herself, only this time, a little softer. "Okay."

He's almost out of the door when the words leave his lips - dry and desperate. "I love you, Erin."

It takes a sharp inhale for her not to cry then. "I love you too."

X

The following morning, it's a smell that wakes Erin before the noise of traffic or other residents slamming their doors none-too-delicately. Bacon, she detects, and possibly eggs. There's coffee too and maybe even...pancakes? For a moment, she's unsure as to whether she actually _has_ woken up, or whether she's on that precipice between slumber and the real world and her mind just wants to keep her in fantasy land that little while longer. But then she strains an ear and actually _hears_ the bacon sizzling. One eye slowly creeps open, then the other, until she registers that yes, she's in her apartment, but the breakfast thing _is_ actually happening. And there's only one person she knows who would cook a breakfast like that before eight a.m.

She wishes her first port of call didn't have to be the bathroom, but it is and so she tries to go as fast as she can, as though the fact that Jay is in the kitchen cooking breakfast might suddenly turn to fiction if she's too slow in seeing it for herself.

It doesn't turn to fiction. He's there when she pads down the hallway in his old t-shirt and some shorts she'd thrown on, a towel slung over his shoulder and a spatula in hand, looking like he's never belonged anywhere other than where he is now.

"You're cooking me breakfast," she smiles, inching towards him with a dimple-displaying grin.

"Correction," he says, adjusting the heat on the stove. "I'm cooking _us_ breakfast."

"Even better."

Erin stops just short of where he stands, suddenly unsure about her natural instinct to wrap her arms around him so she can lay her head on his back in case it spooks him and he runs. When he turns to face her, he looks just as hesitant, only, he's actually brave enough to tell her he wants.

And what he wants is to kiss her.

He does. Long and slow and impossibly perfect. The kind of kiss that makes her insides clench because it's that deliciously sweet. He only pulls away when neither of them have enough air in their lungs left to keep going, and even then he steals a series of pecks with a boyish grin that makes her melt.

They eat breakfast and he takes her hand in the parking lot of the doctor's office and they hear their baby's heartbeat for the second time.

By eleven a.m, it's already the best day she's had in months.

X

The day, inevitably, has to end.

It's devastatingly disappointing when Erin wakes to an empty apartment, one where there's no smell of bacon wafting through the air or the sounds of pans clattering on the stove. But Jay's back at work - more paperwork than busts, but they're all more than okay with that - and she knows she should be grateful that she gets to see him more often. But watching him from behind a desk isn't the same as receiving a lazy morning kiss and they both know it.

He comes over after work most nights and she lets herself fall asleep on the couch snuggled into his chest after they've eaten dinner. She knows he doesn't ever allow himself to drift off too, but it's okay, she figures. Baby steps.

Her stomach grows ever bigger and they go shopping for a stroller and a crib. Singular. They choose them together, all of the time avoiding the conversation regarding whether they'll need a second one of each item, because are they going to bring a child into the world for whom living between two apartments will be normal? They still have a little over two months to figure that out, and Erin's promised herself she won't rush his recovery.

Like most things in her life at that moment, that too, proves more difficult than she'd anticipated.

Jay goes with her to a birthing class. It's their first one and neither of them are really sure what to expect, other than maybe sitting in a circle and practising breathing techniques like they do in the movies.

Except, this class turns out to be nothing like the movies.

They spend the first fifteen minutes getting to know the other couples (unnecessarily, in Erin's opinion, but hey, she's new to this and she doesn't want to seem rude) during which they find out that everyone else knows the sex of their baby, has a name - or at least a few options - picked out, and knows the type of birth they want to have. When it comes to Erin and Jay, she explains they work for the police department, they don't know whether she's carrying a boy or girl, they haven't finalised name options (or even discussed them, but she leaves _that_ part out) and they also haven't thought about the type of birth she's going to have. Just a normal one would be good, she thinks.

"It's a good thing you came to us then," the coach tells them. "We can help with all of that."

Erin doesn't want any help with the baby stuff. She just wants to know how much it's going to hurt when she has to push it out of her. Everything else she wants revolves around Jay being back home. She doesn't say this, but she knows he knows because he squeezes her hand and tries to reassure her with that sad smile he does.

He drops her home, walks her inside of the apartment and tells her he wants to stay, but he can't. He drops a kiss to her forehead, tells her he loves her and then leaves.

Different night. Same story.

X

One night though, things change. She's been uncomfortable all day in the pen and when she goes to take a shower after Jay's gone back to Will's, Erin feels a sharp pain in her lower abdomen. Her back is aching too, and when another pain comes, she quickly finishes her shower and towels herself off - no mean feat with a thirty-two week bump and a seriously waning sense of balance. She's not about to take herself to hospital over it, but there's still a feeling gnawing away at her that she needs to know everything is okay, and so she calls Jay to ask Will's opinion.

Both brothers arrive no more than fifteen minutes later and she can tell Jay's panicked.

As it turns out, it's a false alarm - or Braxton Hicks, as they call it.

"I'm going to stay here tonight," Jay tells Will as he makes to leave. "If that's okay?" he adds, turning towards Erin like there'd be even the slightest possibility she'd ever say no.

"Of course."

Will bids them a 'night' and insists she call if she's worried about anything.

It's a little awkward after that. Not because he's there, but because they're standing in the livingroom at least three feet apart when all they both really want to do is go to bed and lie in each other's arms.

"I'll take the couch," Jay tells her, and she feels her heart sink at the thought that he's going to be there, but so damn far away like he's been banished. In truth, she figures, he's banished himself.

"Okay," she agrees, feet itching to go to him. They don't though. They turn her body in the opposite direction and head for the bedroom.

She stays in bed alone for an hour or so, during which she listens to him grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, opening the cupboard near the bathroom to pull out the spare pillows and blankets, until she can't bare it any longer - the thought of him lying there alone when all either of them want is to be together.

She tiptoes into the darkness, reaching her fingers out for the light switch so she can see.

"Erin?" he questions, eyes blinking in the sudden brightness. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah," she says quietly. "You should be in bed."

"You know I can't -"

"- Please just come to bed Jay."

She can see the internal battle he's fighting and this is probably really unfair of her but she _is_ carrying his child and she's made it this far without being truly, horribly selfish. He rises from the couch though, crosses over to her and seals his lips over hers, entwining their fingers so they enter the bedroom together.

He pulls back the sheets, lets her settle on her back with her hair fanned out on the pillow before joining her, sinking into the mattress with a deep inhalation. It takes a while for her to get comfy, what with her stomach preventing her from lying in her favoured position, but she finally stops fidgeting once he's wrapped her up in his arms and buried his nose in her hair.

X

Over the next couple of weeks, he spends more nights back in their bed, and whether he experiences the terrors or not, Erin isn't sure. She knows he wouldn't tell her the full extent if he did, but each time she wakes during the night, she's still lying in his arms.

He moves back in officially the week before her due date, and they're celebrating with pizza and tacos (both, because she couldn't decide which she preferred) when her water breaks. It's almost comical, the timing of it, but they clean up quickly and grab the hospital bag they packed a few nights previously to take with them in the Sierra.

Jay holds her hand as she breathes through each contraction with gritted teeth and sweat pouring down the back of her neck. He doesn't let go when she all but crushes his fingers with each push, nor when she's afforded a few moments of respite from the pain, or even when the doctor tells him he can come down and watch his child entering the world. No. He only lets go when she's handed their son, pink and screaming and perfect, so she can hold him against her as she cries with utter happiness that they've made it to this point.

Jay cries too. Just a couple of tears from each eye because he's so unbelievably proud and in awe of her that he can't find the words to express it. _I love you_ doesn't seem enough.

It'll never seem enough, somehow.

They don't tell everyone else right away. When he asks whether she wants him to call Hank, she shakes her head because it's been so long that they've had this - this level of perfection and happiness - that she's more than okay for it just to be them for a while.

They've spent so long not being, after all.

So they sit together on the bed, all three nestled in like they don't have anywhere else they ever need to go. And it doesn't matter that they've never discussed names, or that their son won't get one for a week. It doesn't matter that there are still boxes of Jay's stuff sitting in the livingroom of their apartment (because it's _theirs_ again now) awaiting a place in a drawer or a cupboard. It doesn't even matter that they're only _just_ a _them_ again, because they're going to be a _them_ for the rest of their lives - Erin's sure of it.


End file.
